It's Not Easy Tonight
by KayMoon24
Summary: Nick has a secret bad back. Ellis wants to help. Like hell Nick is gonna let that happen. Hurt/Comfort/Angst. Character study, humor from Rochelle and Coach. Ect.First 'Left For Dead' Fanfiction.


_**AN:**__ Aw, hell, it's Kay's second ever crappy hurt/comfort fic. And it's looonng. How long is it? IT'S SO LOOONNNG THAT- okay, okay. I'll spare you my horrible stand up. But hey ya'all, this is my first shaky steps into the Left For Dead 2 fandom. I even got my Sherlock Holmes and James Bond kicks in here. So, who knows…my ridiculous hurt/comfort Sherlock story was pretty well received. And I hope this one turns out alright too! I sure worked hard on it. Although I think it's not so good…dedicated to __**TitainsGirl1234 **__for being an absolute doll! I hope this is okay to what you were expectin'! No pressure, right?_

**Prompt**: Nick has a secret bad back. Ellis wants to help. Like hell Nick is gonna let that happen, but eventually... Hurt/Comfort/Angst. Character study, humor from Rochelle and Coach. Ect.

**Warnings: **T for Teen Bad language because Nick has a potty mouth. Also Ellis being too damn adorable to handle. And slight slash—if you squint and tilt your head 40 degrees to the left. I'm serious. It's sorta there—but I really feel it's more about Nick's control problem, and the growing trust between them.

Truth: I feel clever about it.

( ^ Lie: She's not clever about anything.)

**Edited:** 12/22/012 for my stupidness like calling Coach "couch". *Facepalms* *1/6/012 for other typeos.

* * *

_"Jesus H. Christ," _Nick sputtered out in a gasp, awakened just as he was turning over in his sleep.

His face seemed to be beaming with sweat that rolled down his cheeks in large luke-yellow droplets. Throwing out a bandaged hand against the interior wall of the crumbling water-damaged safe house, he rubbed at his face, trying to guess how long it'd been since he had fallen asleep. The skittering darkness hung low and hot, making Nick feel like morning was never going to break. The windows were boarded; the miserable, broken pieces of furniture pushed to the furthest entrances of the shabby, two-roomed apartment made him feel all the more trapped and claustrophobic. And worst of all: his freaking back hurt like a _bitch. _It was a sudden, rapid, wrathful snap that jerked him out of his exhausted sleep, and now it settled at the base of his spine, sending waves like searing hot flashes of pain up and down his back muscles. His shoulder twitched, his arms slightly spasmed. To this, Nick let out a stream of curses that floated loudly through the broken door, and made Ellis feel like he wasn't even sure he had heard such cusses before in his entire life.

_You're just dreaming Nick_, the con-man lied to himself. _There's no way that _now_ of all the times this could have happened to you, this would be happening. Just get up.  
_  
Groaning, Nick forcefully managed to stumble out of the darkness of the back bedroom, squinting to catch hold of the cascades of moonlight that reached in through the cracks in the plaster and eroding wood. Ellis was sitting lazily in a haphazard blue sofa chair, peeling at the outer leather layer to bide his time while he waited for Coach and Rochelle to return from their midnight shopping raid. Why it was so darn long, he wasn't quite sure. He quickly jumped when he heard Nick's moaning breaking the silence of the still night-watch, and he swiveled the chair around to greet Nick with a _Ah'm-SO-glad-yer-awake-because-Ah-was-about-ta-shoot-myself-outta-boredom-_smile.

Nick did not smile back. In fact, the tall, wiry, hard-nosed Northerner looked damn near _evil. _The dark purple circles under his eyes clashed with his black, disheveled hair. He held himself up-right in a loping, slouched style that suggested to Ellis that whatever way Nick had fallen asleep was not a good one.

Ellis guessed this is probably what explained all that cursin'. But he continued anyway with a loud: "Mornin' Nick! Er, well, actually, Ah reckon' it's more like 3 o'clock in tuh' mornin'. But still, man, am Ah happy ta see you—"

"Not now Ellis," the former growled, leaning hard against the wall. _This is not happening, this is not happening_, Nick chanted in his head. He twisted his arms back and forth, one ear listening for something. Ellis looked at him funny from underneath the bill of his cap.

"Somethin' the matter?"

Nick simply grunted, and then groaned again as a white startling jolt rocketed from his tailbone to his neck; the con-man gasped, a hand flying to his lower back. "Fuckin' A—where's Coach and Rochelle? They aren't back yet?"

Ellis shook his head curiously, his blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight. "Nup man, just me still."

Nick responded to this with another loud curse, and Ellis swore he heard something like a poppin' sound coming from where the Northerner stood. It didn't sound natural, that's for sure. It sounded downright nasty.

"Damn man," Ellis hid his smile with the back of his hand, sinking down into the chair with a twin barrel shotgun propped against his leg that was facing the safe-room door. "Wake up on the wrong side of the floor? Yer not nearly so ornery in th' morin',"

Nick rolled his eyes, his right hand to his lower back, his left to pitch at the bridge of his nose in frustration. If he was stuck with Ellis for another two hours while Coach and Rochelle were held up somewhere with infected, the least he could do was keep things straight. _Or well, straight enough so that _Ellis_ would understand, _he added spitefully. "Shut up Ellis, it's Goddamn three in the morning and my back is _killing_ me, alright? Happy?"

"Really—?" The brunet gasped, genuinely surprised, his grin growing too large to conceal on his young, insouciant face. "It _hurts? _Shoot Nick, that's gotta be crazy. Ah've ain't never had anythin' hurtin' on me before like that—well, not just by wakin' up anyway. There was this one time when my buddy Keith and Ah—"

"Overalls, did you not just hear me? _It's three in the morning_, and I really don't give a shit about your pokey-southern tall-tales. 'Kay?" Nick snapped grouchily, a hand rubbing at his back, tracing exactly where the sparks of pain shot up and down his spinal nerves. _"Son of a bitch," _He winced hard, eyes clamping shut in the process, the darkness and the pressure against his back starting to help.

Ellis smile dampened slightly, used to Nick's forceful way of speech, but still a tad hurt every time he told him that he thought his stories with Keith were lies. They were true as the day is long, and one day, he'd introduce Keith to his new friends to dang-gum prove it.

"Sorry man," the younger whispered apologetically, tapping the gun by his thigh, and using his foot to scoot it along the floor just so he could pretend to be interested in balancing smooth clunky metal on wood and not have to look at the burning resentment in the con-man's eyes. "'m just sayin' that Ah ain't never had tha' happen to me before n' that must suck."

"Uh huh," The black haired felon muttered, shifting carefully, hiding nearly silent curses under his breath. It hadn't happen liked this in a long time—his stupid freakin' blow out—but _of course_ it just had to happen during the God damn _zombie apocalypse_. "Lucky you, kid,"

The Southerner slowly turned his head to watch from the corner of his eye as his teammate practically cringed at every step he took, his head bowed, both hands pressed to his lower back, his teeth clenched up tight. His dark eyes narrowed in hate at the floor. Or at himself. Or maybe even just Ellis as well. Ellis was never really quite sure where Nick's rage came from, or where it was meant to go.

To break the tension, and maybe help, 'cause laughter is the best medicine, Ellis cocked his head, a smirk on his lips and turned the entire chair around to watch the ex-gangster move towards the back of the room with obvious liability. "What's that like, Nick, bein' old?" Ellis whistled playfully at the dark-haired man. "What're you, like, _fourty-five?"_

"Ellis, shut up," Nick snapped, his teeth barely opening so that the words sounded muffled and insincere. "I'm thirty-five." He added with a narrowing of his eyes, his jaw clenched.

"Naw man, seriously. Does it really hurt that _bad?_" the mechanic wagged a dark eyebrow jokingly, his good mood abundant as usual, even in the dead of night.

Nick stared straight up at the ceiling, breathing slowly through his nose, and wondered if he always had a hatred of mornings before or after Ellis had shown up in his life.

"I'll make your_ jaw_ hurt if you don't _shut up_ Ellis," he griped, his green eyes beginning to smolder into the water-damaged ceiling with an aching pain of frustration. A cool dark flame of nervousness was beginning to start in the back of Nick's brain. If there was anything he hated more than losing out on rolling some dim-witted rich ass-hole for money, it was showing _weakness._ Weakness to anyone. _Only down and out losers get themselves into fuckin' messes and go crying to people that don't give a shit_, Nick reminded himself. _You look out for number one and number one only.  
_  
_God damn, why does this have to happen now?_ Nick's brows furrowed together as he floundered for an idea to break the pain. There was no way he'd be able to move on once Coach and Rochelle got back, his muscles screaming at him when he considered the distance to God-Knows-Where. They had been out of pills for _miles_—and forget about finding any type of booze. That's what Nick usually did back in New York to dull everything. Like most good opportunities that presented themselves doubtfully in Nick's tough life, there was a promise of never running out of alcohol in the South. Well, surprise, surprise, that didn't work out. Considering the whole stereotype now, Nick felt that it certainly was a lot easier to get in New York as well—broken down Speak Easys from the 20's. Rolling a drunk or some punk-ass kid that was in the wrong alley at the wrong time. Hell, even paying a prostitute for a snip of something strong to pickpocketing her pimp, or rippin' offa drug dealer. But _Noooo,_ he had to end up in 70 miles south of the goddamn middle of hick-town _nowhere_—where people seem to only function off of nothing but good natured _sunshine,_ the _Bible_, and annoying, freakin' _hospitality. _But then again, there was no way he'd let up on how bad he really was. Weakness was for fools without a plan. He'd been worse off before—but still, that was when he running on luck.

Nick cringed at the idea of running, even metaphorically. He'd have to face it. He was out of luck and out of options. The nearest liquor store, be he so lucky to spot one, was probably completely taken over with zombies. What _was _his plan?

"Alright, okay," the Southerner threw up his hands in mock surrender, breaking Nick's train of thought, "You know Ah'm just teasin' ya."

"Yeah, I know that," Nick gritted out, hunching over, wanting to lay on the floor right there and never, ever move again. Ellis watched as his friend's knees buckled, but luckily Nick caught the edges of the door-frame before he fell, though, the whole action seemed to be more for the bad than the good. As his hand caught the door, his back contorted to keep him upright and Nick let out a genuine hiss of pain that sounded more like a kicked dog than hard shifty eyed fella that Ellis had run into a month before hand.

"Ya know, Keith's sister had'a problem like that, like, when she got pregnant by Ronnie McNeal back in her sophomore year of high school, an' like, she'd ask me ta rub 'em out n' that usually helped." Ellis tested the remainder of his offer with a slightly pause, and, when Nick didn't respond, he continued on happily: "Now, Ah'm not trying to brag or nuthin' like that, but if ya want Nick, Ah'd be happy ta—"

"No," Nick's voice was soft, teeming with a cracking type of anger that Ellis, bless his heart, just wasn't hearing. It would be clear to anyone with an general hope of self-preservation to not push the straining con-man any further, his body language certainly conveying so with his bad back towards Ellis and his fists biting into the wood of the door frame, but Ellis wasn't one to be discouraged easily.

"But Nick, man—"

"I swear to God, if you _touch _me Ellis, I'll skin you faster than you can skin your family's road kill for dinner."

Ellis squeezed the arms of the sofa chair tightly, his friendly face tight. "Hey now—that ain't—"

"And about Keith's sister: did you massage her back before _he_ _fucked_ her, or after _you _did?" Nick lashed out, his teeth bared as he twisted in a horrible bout of pain to keep eye contact with his group member. Ellis took in the light sheen of sweat that glistened down the Northerner's throat, and the wild determined look in his dark green eyes.

Ellis's smile broke. A rare angry gleam rose up into the 23 year old's face in the form of a pale pink blush that traveled from his cheeks to his neck. Ellis wasn't stupid. He took Nick's scrapes and insults just fine—he didn't like 'em none, but he didn't worry about 'em. But there were_ two _things that really made Ellis's Georgian blood boil, and those were one: He didn't like profanity and woman mixed together in a serious situation, and two: he certainly didn't like it when folks attacked his friends, be it physically or verbally. And to bring up Keith was pretty dang low.

"Shuddup Nick, that ain't fair, or funny,"

Nick gasped a curse, finally let himself drop to his knees, his hands bracing him above the floor, his eyebrow twitching. "Look, I'm—I'm sorry, okay?" Nick growled, not sounding sorry at all. "I just—_shit _man, I can't even think!"

The tension in the room cooled for a moment as Ellis kneaded the broken leather at the end of the arm of the chair between his fingers, letting a deep breath from his nose calm him down.

_Man_, the brunet considered thoughtfully, _Nick must be in a lot of pain right now to go n' do that…Ah know he don't mean none…he's kinda like a garden snake without venom._

And it was true, Ellis's blue eyes studied Nick carefully, and the ailing Northerner really did seem like a wounded predator, worried about his pride. Ellis had watched a ton of those critters file across the dusty, grassy roads and highways during his childhood. The signs weren't too hard to see.

_Shee-it_, Ellis cursed in his mind. _But what do Ah do now?  
_  
Ellis couldn't help but feel nervous now. A tingle of guilt started to drip from the back of his smile to his stomach. It wasn't cool to tease someone that was actually really hurting. But he just wasn't sure what to do next. He wished his Ma was around. She'd know what to do—but then, as he stared blatantly at the dirty, musky criminal with grease in his hair and a voice smooth enough to charm a ragin' water moccasin—Ellis wasn't sure he was all too comfortable with his sweet Ma and Nick in the same room together. He shook his head slowly to break the thoughts her, before he'd start thinkin' too much about home, and it'd be real hard to hide that lump in his throat before Rochelle and Coach got back. Ellis began to stand up to help up his friend, like his Ma would've wanted from her good boy. Like any real friend would do.

"Don't," Nick's voice shook slightly, but the swindler managed to turn enough to look Ellis dead in the eye and keep the younger sitting where he was. "I know what you're going to do, and I'm telling ya: don't."

"But—" Ellis objected, his knees bending into place.

"_I don't need your help, Ellis!" _Nick's voice ripped through the air like a desperate punch to the gut, and Ellis's knees gave out as he sank back into the baggy cushion of the chair, shock lining his features. The hair seemed to rise on the back of Nick's neck as he spat, spittle practically flying from his mouth with defiance. The con-man then rolled his shoulders, grunting as the muscles in his back protested and he shakily stood. He pulled his arms straight out to his sides, his fists shaking for self-control. Ellis opened his mouth, but his voice came out less cheerful than natural.

"Ah'll let you know when Coach n' Rochelle git back, you just…go on and lay down again…or sumthin'," Ellis's tone became an unsure whisper, but Nick found himself unable to care, the pain crawling up his neck and taking over his arms. He pulled himself back into the spare room and flopped back down onto the lumpy, torn mattress, and tried not to think about anything.

_**~*~ A few hours later ~*~**_

"Boy, you better open this door here before I bust it in quarterback style!" The strong confident voice of Coach made Ellis jump with excitement as it lifted from behind the safe-house door. He twisted open the door and dodged out of the way as spare guns, ammo and a bag of treats were shuffled into the room along with the two other survivors.

Rochelle greeted the pleased brunet with a smart smile of her own, hugging Ellis, then grabbing up the bag and tossing it into the makeshift kitchenette. She tossed her long black hair as she glanced around for the fourth member of their party. "Where's Nick?"

Coach glanced around, none too pleased to find out where the con-man was so quick. It was annoying as hell to actually be concerned, by Coach's standards, to care about Nick at all. Even so, the absence of Nick's mysteriously silent jaded voice, which was highly unusual to the rest of the party's ears, was a little disheartening, as the germophobic con-man was the first to loudly complain or lounge an insult about anything.

"Er, he's uh, still asleep," Ellis answered, glancing around a little nervously.

"Sleepin'? That fool better not be sleeping! It's been over three hours since we left!" Coach's voice rose as he spoke, casting it out towards the spare room to Ellis's alarm.

"I think what Coach is _trying_ to say, Ellis sweetie, is have _you _gotten a break yet?" Rochelle intervened abruptly to quell Coach's annoyance.

"Well, Ah guess Ah haven't no, but it ain't no big deal guys. All Ah've been doin' is sittin' in this chair right here an' waitin' for ya'all," Ellis explained, slipping back into his easy going manner knowing that he could keep everyone cool with one another.

"Mmhm," Coach grumbled, pacing over to the beaten chair and poking it with his gun. "Well, hell with him. Now it's our turn to relax." He sank down into the broken arm chair, lifting up the leg-rest to recline back.

"So we ain't leavin' yet?" Ellis kept his voice calm while inside his heart raced. How could they move Nick with his back all crazy like that? And how would Coach take it? _Oh man, they'd probably leave 'em behind an' it'd be all my fault!_

Coach glanced at Ellis questioningly. "Youngin', does it _look _like I want to move?"

"M' just askin'," Ellis shrugged, forcing himself not to look at Nick's bedroom door.

Rochelle moved to the kitchenette, shifting out rations for everyone to eat while her eyes still found themselves wondering back to Ellis's blue ones, and the way he was standing, chewing on the side of his cheek like something was still wrong. Rochelle discreetly laid down her chopping knife, signaling for Coach's attention with a finger. His weary eyes regarded her gesture, and he followed her head nod towards Ellis's figure.

Leaning forward with his hands on his knees, Coach quietly cleared his throat, trying to bring back the times where he'd have to talk with his students in the locker rooms about fighting and telling the truth when they accidentally broke something, or had Playboy pictures in their locker, because Ellis looked guilty as _hell._

"Ellis, you alright? You look awful nervous, son."

Ellis quickly whipped around, his hat nearly jumping off of his head in process. "What? Naw, Ah'm good, thanks."'

Rochelle raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Ellis?"

Ellis quickly ducked his head, tracing patterns into his shotgun, not wanted to meet anyone's eyes. Coach and Rochelle exchanged a look.

"Ellis, is this about Nick?" Coach slowly suggested.

Ellis snapped his head back up, his eyes wide. "W-what makes ya'all think that? He's—He's—"

"Ellis," Rochelle prompted seriously.

"Ah—Ahh—oh, _all right!" _Ellis confessed, giving his gun a light kick so that it skittered across the door towards the middle of the tight living room. The boy's motor-mouth seemed to move even faster as he rambled each word. "He done woke up 'bout an hour ago risin' hell 'bout his back, n' it don't look good. 'M just nervous that it won't git better in time, n' now he won't let me help him or anythin' n'—"

"Whoa, whoa, son, slow down," Coach chuckled, "What's all this about Nick's back?"

Ellis shifted his knees up and pressed his chest into them, "Ah don't really know Coach. Apparently it's hurt real bad. You guys missed it—he could hardly stand."

"Huh," Coach huffed with a click of his tongue. "Well I'll be damned. That sneaky son offa' bitch is _cowering _back there, Rochelle."

Rochelle chewed on her bottom lip, not so much amused by the defensive con-man's hiding skills, but that Ellis was right. How could they move on with Nick as bad off as Ellis described him?

"Awhman, Ah knew this was bad on'a count'a when he first looked at me this mornin', but now Ah'm kinda gettin' really spooked guys. What're we gonna do?" Ellis lamented into his knees.

"Well, I guess we really can't do anything but hope it'll pass in time," Coach measured out clearly to the survivors. "I mean, if he won't accept help like the flea-bitten mutt he is, then I'm not gonna go rackin' my brain about it."

This response didn't sit well with Rochelle, especially with the way it only made Ellis bury his head into his jeaned knees further, but she still had to see Coach's point. What could they do? The slightest bit of resistance from Nick out in the field, and they could be over-taken with infected in an instant, certainly with the possibly of them not being able to run thanks to Nick.

It was going to be a tricky situation. Her chocolate brown eyes measured up the door like she was measuring up the smooth, white suited card turner himself. _Maybe I should go talk to him?_

_**~*~ Inside the spare bedroom~*~**_

Nick couldn't fall back asleep no matter how hard he tried—and the voices of Coach, Rochelle and the hick certainly weren't helping. He'd like to be laying on his side at least, like how he usually slept at night, but even shifting his legs caused some attached muscle in his back to shriek in protest, and made the witty gambler's eyes water. He leaned most of his weight on his chest, and heaved himself over, finally laying on his stomach—but not escaping the running of his nose and the stupid tears in his eyes. He lifted an arm up and wiped at all the wetness around his face, shuddering as his shoulder pulled, and suddenly triggering some type of image to burst into his inner eye.

_He was wet…_

Everything was wet…dirty…slick…and there was rain…

_Rain…_He had been lying like this before. Except this time, the wetness on his face wasn't just tears and snot. It was blood. It filled his mouth, strained his teeth, and he was constantly swallowing it. Thick and salty tasting with wasted amounts of sour adrenaline. His head was heavy, fuzzy; his vision disorientated —and a stabbing pain crunched hard into the center of his back. Nick let out a lung bursting yell that seemed to echo back to him as it bounced off the narrow, tough, New York City walls and sank back into his throat with nowhere to go, no one to shout for.

A meaty ringed hand was at his hair, hauling up his face from the center and twisting his neck at a horribly awkward angle so the attacker could go _mano a mano _with its prey. Nick gasped, choking on his own blood that backlashed from the corners of his mouth, down his jaw and dotted his neck. He could only catch the burning, shifting face of the man rapidly before his face reached the cement beneath him all too quickly, causing him to black out in a puddle of misty diluting blood, sweat, and rain…

….He barely had come too to find that his attacker still hadn't left, and was, in fact, speaking to him in low audible strings of swears, insults, and kicks. Oh sure, Nick reasoned dully, he'd gotten jumped before, been in a rumble before, nicks, bruises, pipes, all thrown and scratched at his back and the rest of his body…but this he wasn't prepared for…he wasn't fast enough…he swallowed a bubble of rain and red, his stomach acid racing to come back up his esophagus…but why wasn't he prepared…why couldn't he remember what he had done?...

"—And I told you that you needed to listen to _me, _Nickie-boy." The insulting, slimy, muted voice continued as it tried to reach Nick's ears, but Nick's brain couldn't quite comprehend the words meaning. A binding, full-on kick to his spinal cord lapsed his brain into over-drive—and he sucked in a breath that brought him nothing but water to sputter out, and messed with his vocal chords. He was so numb before, but pain had a funny way of making the body hyper aware of everything little sensation that was happening to it.

It felt like Nick was, for once, living in slow motion. He felt the prickle of the hard cement on his torn up jeans, the sting of the rain as it pelted against his back. It felt like he could feel where every one of his hairs had been ripped out by their roots, and there was something like a long, burning feeling that connected from his the lower part of his abdomen to his left shoulder. A direct kick to his lower back forced his world to speed up faster and spin into a universe of black, blues and failing colours, soon melting into one another.

"You're outta' th' job, you two-faced, skinny little asshole," Another heavy, smoky voice whispered into his ear. Nick could only manage to turn his face away from the water, only his basic primal instinct working in search for air. "Consider your title removed, and your ass dumped. Find some other gang to take you in, you whiny, insubordinate shit."

"You're smart kid," someone spat into the wound that seemed to be ripping his back in two…Nick felt the gush of something warm rolling down his sides—another foot was pressed deep into his back—a unsettling popping sound…Nick no longer could fathom words or managed thought. "But you're gonna learn yourself some tack,"

There was nothing but ruthless, mindless, tourcherous pain.

"_Holy Santa Maria! _Did you paralysis 'em, Tony?" A frighten voice toggled through Nick's dying consciousness.

"Nah, but that little asshole is gonna know what it's like put all your _trust_ into someone and _ruin _it all,"

"Shiiitt…there's blood everywhere! Jesus Christ!_ JESUS CHRIST!_ FUCKIN' RUN IT'S THE _GODDAMN— "_

Nick sucked in a breath that brought him back to reality. That's always where his memory of that night cut off. And frankly, he's glad for that. He doesn't remember all too well what started that night, or how it ended. But he does know that he woke up in a hospital room the next day, handcuffed to the metal railing, and an police officer asking questions that were too fast and too much to really understand after losing so much blood. At first, Nick was terrified that he actually was paralyzed, but it wasn't the case. He'd just have to be careful about straining his back too hard for the rest of his life, so his muscles wouldn't experience what was called "muscle memory," and freeze up in subconscious, post-traumatic amounts. Nick just gave everyone the finger there, and managed to talk a cute lil' pre-med school nurse to let him go for a quickie in the closet and a "borrowed" bottle of geriatric ibuprofen (because as an already convicted criminal, he wasn't allowed to have the _good stuff.)_

Although he had done nothing but lie there and reminisce, Nick swore that the muscles in his back only felt tighter, threatening to squeeze what little air he could take into his pounding, hyperventilating lungs. He tried to tell himself to calm down, that he was…well, safer…than most people…but God damn…everything was pretty red in his vision—swallowing over with tears and swears that only made him feel all the more hopeless as he fought to repress the memory that brought him into the situation he was in to begin with.

_"Fuck," _he whispered weakly, biting down into the dirty, gritty mattress layer, helpless to reach the door, and too drunk on his own sense of dignity to take back his words now. "Fuck…"

This was bad.

And it was only going to get worse.

**~* Meanwhile *~**

Outside the door, Ellis tested muffling the clunky, squeaky turn of the old, rusty knob with little professional tack. It wasn't too much of a surprise to Rochelle. As sweet as Ellis was, he never really was about being quiet in any case.

"Ellis, honey. I think it might be best if you leave Nick alone for now," She tried to reason calmly, gripping the top of a ripped open sofa chair to rise from her seat on the dusty, wooden floor beneath her. Ellis froze, his light eyes deer-in-the-high-lights wide, like a kid caught stealing from a candy store. Which he had only succeeded in doing once with Keith when he was fourteen.

"Ellis, did you honestly think no one knew what you were up to?" Coach's deep, authoritive voice reminded Ellis of his high school principal, Mister Warner, who usually scolded Keith and himself in a similar tone of voice. The brunet grinned at his two friends, folding his hands up nervously.

"Ah just feel bad, ya know? Ah mean, ya'll didn't see 'em this mornin'. It looked like it really hurt!" The 23-year old's voice cracked slightly in confession, his face full of thinly withheld worry. Rochelle wanted to smile despite the situation—it was nice to have Ellis to herself for once, and enjoy the boy's light-hearted, caring personality shine through without Nick's slinking, snake bite of a voice taking sucker-punches at anything Ellis said. Beside her, sinking in the foam and cracks on the sofa chair, Coach chuckled.

"Look son, whatever Nick did to pull out his back, he probably deserved it," Coach's tone was playful, but Ellis still felt his heart sink a little. He hated it when they all ganged up on Nick like that. What was the point of surviving a Kick-Ass Zombie Apocalypse, when they all couldn't come out as life-long friends on the other side? The whole episode just made his stomach churn.

Rochelle proposed an 'amen' to that, hiding a soft giggle herself, before finally sweeping forward to collect Ellis's arm and lead him away from the practically off-hinged door.

"Ellis sweetie, your heart is in the right place. But Nick…well," she trailed off, turning slightly to the safe-room door and catching up Coach's serious gaze in the process.

This look that the two African Americans shared wasn't the very first. The two knew Nick was beyond help. Emotionally, physically, certainly _socially_. Whatever he had gone through before this Hell, really screwed him up. Coach and her had talked about it late, late at night, staring out a chip in the boarded windows, after talking about TV shows that Coach loved and Rochelle happened to help produce. It helped her and Coach bond—to try to understand the two radically different personalities they were forced to protect, and the reasons why they were worth it. But they both also agreed that Ellis was a kind, good-natured boy, and wouldn't be able to see that kind of corruption in Nick like they could. It just wasn't in his brain to think of others that way. But it still burned their insides in anger when Nick paroxystic attitude attacked Ellis's benevolent ways with everything the seething, bitter con-man had.

"Look," Ellis ducked his head, twisting his cap off of his head to smooth over his brown hat-hair with sure fingers. "Ah know ya'all don't care for Nick none, all right? But…he don't mean half the things he says." Ellis looked up, giving Coach and Rochelle the full force of his gentle, good-guy smile, and laughing blue eyes. "You understand that, don't ya?"

Rochelle sighed, picking at a loose string that was slowly pulling out her favourite band t-shirt. "Ellis…I know you like everyone, but you can't let Nick push you around, okay? That's all we worry about."

Ellis grinned a little softer. "Well gee, guys, ya'all don't need to worry 'bout me or nuthin', but Ah sure appreciate it though," He glanced towards the door. "But, jus' think 'bout when we all first met n' Nick spat out that he wouldn't be 'round long. Well, now just look'it us! We're a bad ass, zombie killin'est group if Ah ever did see one, and Nick, well, he's a part of it too."

Coach nodded respectfully, humoring the boy. "Ellis, we're not trying to talk you out of how you feel. We just want you to understand that there's a time and place for everything. And Nick…well, you just gotta be sure it's the right moment."

"Speaking of moments," Rochelle's eyes were alert and intent at the windows and fixed barricaded doors that surrounded them in their make-shift safe house. "We're going to have to leave by morning. _Have _to."

"Why?" Ellis's question seemed completely bewildered, his eyebrows quirking up, as if his only concern was for the possibly criminalized gangster wreathing in pain in the far-off room, and not the hundreds of dead, man-eating monsters patrolling outside the windows. Rochelle stared uneasily at Coach. While Ellis had been focusing on the door, the both of them peeked outside to catch the whole, massive onslaught of gathering zombies that were staring to shuffle and scratch their way towards the smell of live flesh. Rochelle was a quick, clear-headed woman, however, and she evaded like a champ into a mischievous smile that deluded her heavy thoughts.

"Because," her dark, chocolate brown eyes twinkled, "You ever see a prideful man with an aching back move fast? It's _hilarious."_

Ellis couldn't help but give snorting laugh at this. "He_ is _pretty full of himself, ain't he?"

"Exactly," Coach added, "which is why, I'm going to have a talk with Nicolas before anyone else. That boy be gettin' on my _last _nerve."

**~* Later *~**

It was a long, tourcherous hour later that the light blue shadows that wisped and strung themselves along the back room broke open into a soft, yellow sheen from the crack of an opening door. From the battered, twisted bed, Nick groaned, shifting his folded arms to lift himself up enough to turn and face whoever the hell it was that thought it was a good thing to come wake him up from his false sleep.

"Ellis, I told you go away," Nick glowered at the wall before him, wanting to shrink into the mattress and disappear. A heavy set figure entered into the room. Nick felt his throat run dry, his pupils folding into pinpoints. _Shit._

"Oh, Ellis is away son. It's just you and me," Coach's deep, perturbed voice struck the shadows, causing a slight drop in Nick's stomach. Nick sank back down across the mattress, unwilling to meet the leader's eyes.

"Oh jeez, Coach, God dammit, give me a heart attack why don't ya," Nick stumbled over his usual smooth voice, failing to play off his surprise, trapped by his own damn arrogance. "When did you guys get back?"

"About an hour an' 45 minutes ago," Coach deadpanned, the coldness to his warm voice prevalent and, dare Nick think it, slightly nerve-wrecking.

Nick swallowed drily, and thought about dragging himself up against all the burning and pressure in his back to face the door. "I'll get up, just…give me a second, okay?"

Coach walked past the causal talking distance line between Nick and him quickly, getting way too close to fool anyone. Coach _knew_, and there was no way out of that. Nick tried to shift away, but Coach simply approached seriously, sitting down on the edge of the mattress that caused the whole bed to rise on Nick's end with the man's tallness and sheer bulk.

"I'd like to see you try to get up right now, Nick, I really, really would. But sadly, this ain't about me getting my jollies. It's about that ridiculous boy outside that door that's been begging me to stay outta this room for the past twenty minutes. Care to explain that?"

Nick scowl turned up ever so slightly into what someone with a half-full look on life _might_ consider to be a sign of reprieve.

"Ellis is a good kid," Nick rasped from the bed.

"—after he also said that you ripped him a new one with some bullshit about a back massage?" Coach continued bitingly. If Nick had the energy, he would have crinkled as far away from Coach as possible. The two men never agreed on much of anything—and Nick always knew he was a few slips of the offensive tongue away from the teacher punching him straight out. Sometimes Nick just ranted obtrusively to bid the man on—practically_asking_ for it, just to see what Coach would do, just for the_ hell _of it. But Coach never kept his threat, never made a real move.

But in the dark. Away from the logic of Rochelle. Nick wasn't so sure. Nick nervously licked his lips, fingers subconsciously digging into the mattress beneath him.

_Oh yeah, like you actually have chance of saving your sorry ass for him dipshit,_ Nick berated himself internally. _It's only what you deserve._

"Well?" Coach stared hard at the shadows that covered Nick's face. "You gonna apologize, or what? Is that how yer gonna continue to treat that 'good kid'?"_  
_  
_A good kid that's also a snitch, yeah, _Nick thought, biting into the side of his mouth. The gambler contented himself merely with a dramatic sigh, and shot back:

"Fine, send the kid in and I'll bow down to kiss his feet in forgiveness. Will that calm everyone the hell down?"

Nick's sarcastic retort bounced uselessly off of Coach's serious, weighty expression that bore into Nick long and considerately. Coach slowly brought his hands up to his face and rubbed at his stubbled jaw tiredly, blowing a long stream of air out of his nose. "You know what's the most _mind boggling _thing about you, boy?"

"How I manage to fuck up everything I've ever done?" Nick asked exasperatedly, a cheek pressed into the mattress. "Because that's what _I _think really works for me."

"No. It's because for what I'd imagine is the _first time _in your pathetic, trashy-ass life, you actually have someone right outside this door that actually gives a crap about your stupid-ass, and you're pushing 'em out the door like he don't even matter."

Nick started aimlessly at the dusty wooden floor beneath him, the words not coming so smarmily anymore. His throat only offered him the smitherings of dehydration. He could hear the dead-motor of the fan above him spinning aimlessly with every shift in the wind, the silence that followed the pair way too thick to start a row, too late to struggle a way out with cool lies and an easy smile that he used to trick so many a man with. But now…his stomach churned at the thought of having to isolate himself in here while the others moved on, alone. He'd wouldn't have it. Nick wasn't afraid of a bullet, or of death. Or, of being alone, really.

But he also refused to die like a cowered locked in a dirty, filthy apartment like so many others.

"'M only telling the kid the truth, Coach," Nick muttered, his eyes flickering restlessly, his breathing too loud in his own head as he accepted the truth of his own words.

"The truth being what, Nick?"

"That there's nothing anyone can do about this. I'm a goddamn _liability _now. More useless than ever—and you all are probably going to have to leave me behind—there, is _that_ what you wanted to hear?" Nick's voice rose loud and boisterously—his hair standing on end like a feral cat. Nick pressed all his anger thoroughly into his words, hiding the shaking of his own voice.

Coach simply stared him down. "Leave you behind? Boy, if I wanted to leave you behind, I would have. A long, long time ago. Of course we aren't now."

"What are you talking about man? Of course you have to move. They're gathering like wolves." Nick kept his lips pressed into a snarl to kill the urge that they had to tremble. "There's not enough time to wait this stupid thing out—I…I don't even know if it'll go away. Ever."

"Well look'it you. You seem actually _concerned _about how much time we've spent here. Well I'll be." Coach returned smugly.

"Cut the crap, Coach." Nick snapped wearily. "This place won't hold. Believe me. Ellis and I have been here long enough to find that this place might as well be held together with gum and duck-tape."

"We have guns," Coach allotted.

"So what? I know about killing things, but what about actually living?"

"And food."

Nick paused, his mind still lofting in the darkness of his thoughts before he really understood was Coach was consenting him to. A plan. A plan to keep his sorry ass_alive._

"No shit?" The younger man's voice came out unexpectantly quiet. Coach couldn't believe it for a second—was the guy really considering dying? Because of a blow out? _Lord hav' mercy on the dramatics of the North,_he lamented._  
_  
Coach turned towards Nick with a slight smirk. "What did you think Rochelle and I were doing for three hours?—Actually, I forget who I'm talkin' to. Don't tell me."

Nick slowly shook his head, hiding his own smirk, refusing to share a moment with Coach or other feely-crap. "Seriously…and here I thought I was going to bite the bullet for sure."

"Oh, that's always an option," Coach lowered his eyes threateningly. "But ya see there's a funny kid in the middle of this God-Forsaken-Place that has given me patience for you, boy. If only you'd do the same for him."

Nick remained silent for a moment, his thoughts offering up no consent. "Kid's too stupid to know a lost cause when he sees one," he mumbled into the mattress.

"I keep telling myself that same thing Nick, but, you know what?" Coach asked.

"We're still alive, somehow." Nick answered easily.

"Exactly. We're still alive. And it's all we can do to keep each other alive."

Nick's thoughts raced for reason, but what could he say? What did he _have _to say?

The con-man leaned harder on the mattress, his shoulders tensing inwards, the burning in his back to rampage all over his body, but his still managed out a quick: "I'm sorry, Coach."

"Don't do your snotty apologizing to _me _boy." The old quarterback sneered, his nostrils flaring up in frustration.

"No, I really mean it," Nick back peddled, his brows tense with guilt as he forced himself to confess like the trapped animal that he was. What was the point now that his secret was out? Why did it matter? "I'm…I'm not…used to this kind of thing, so yeah…I just kinda…snap when I lose control…"

Coach glanced at Nick with a glint of revelation for a second. "If you want the advice of an old football coach, Nick. It seems to me like you're _never _been in control of your life. Now, lemme see your back," the calm, dark-skinned man crossed two massively muscular arms over one another in forced patience. "Go on. I'm waiting."

Sighing, and with a secret, slight glare, Nick wiggled off his white jacket, his tear ducts nearly filling over with tears from the effort of doing so after he had so masterfully hidden all of his weakness.

Even through his shirt, Coach's thick, warm hands caused Nick to shrink away almost instantaneously, but Coach simply shifted forward more to make up the difference.

"Hmm…yeah. You're a fool, all right. That ain't natural at all. Confession time Nick: what'd you do to yourself to get this?"

"It doesn't happen all the time," Nick defended hotly, "and…." He glanced down his hands. "…I got it when I fucked up big time back in New York…" he trailed off, his eyes far away and distant. Coach cleared his throat and stood up from the bed.

"You don't have to explain yourself. But you definitely need something done about it. And considering that none of us are exactly the doctorly type, and my medical knowledge only goes to the public high school level, it looks like Ellis is your best bet."

"I know. I've always known that." Nick rested his face in his clammy hands, a shoulder stuttering with a nerve tick. He slowly blew out air from in-between his fingers. "I'm so bad at this."

"It gets easier, I swear to you boy. But you gotta try to have a little bit of faith in _something_. Especially now. Especially _us. _Then, like everything else you've 'known' in yer stupid, misdirected life, Nicolas: you'll understand to not go throwing it away." Coach nodded solely into his advice. The gym teacher than stood and made his way to the door without a second thought, entirely done with what he had to say.

"Coach," Nick spoke, finally weighed out against his pride.

The large, burly man stood at the door, leaning his ear in ever so intently. "Yeah?"

A slight pause. Coach cursed, deciding he wasn't having any more of the slimy gambler's crap.

"Whatever boy, I'm—"

"Thanks," Nick forced himself to whisper, feeling all the more small inside.

"'Thanks' your stupid-mouth, boy," Coach tossed back, some of the good humor returning to his voice. "I've never met a bigger _drama queen_. Seriously, all you God damn Northerners, I swear on every Midnight Riders' grave!" The door was slammed shut, leaving Nick to brace himself for what would probably be the most demeaning action he'd done in his entire life.

In no less than thirty seconds, the door was pushed open again to revel the jaughty, care-free walk of the cover-all wearing mechanic. He had his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, and his head ducked a-ways, but even Nick could sense that his words had yet to damage the kid's outrageously optimistic view on life. From the bed, Nick contented himself to breathing carefully in and out of his nose.

"Let's get two things perfectly clear Overalls," Nick's green eyes glittered in the darkness, slowing the addressed foot-fall. "If we're really going to do this shit, you're sitting beside me. Not on my back, not near my head, or whatever the fuck people do when they get massages—but the point is, you're sitting where I can see you."

Ellis nodded, his mouth keeping its casual exuberance. "All 'ight, fair 'nough."

The kid approached the bed, and slid off of his shoes so that he was just in his socks—and, _seriously, _Nick had to roll his eyes at the grantedness of it all—but Ellis of course, had the big toe missing from his right sock.

"Wow Ellis," Nick continued in mock awe, keeping conversation to compensate for his rapidly increasing heart-rate and his complete lack of control. "Socks and_everything?_ And here I was thinking you didn't even know _how _to tie your shoes."

Ellis snorted a hint of laughter, taking off his cap and resting it on his sneakers. "Ro' told me you'd probably start sayin' stuff like tha' 'onna count'a because yer…um," Ellis strained for the word the sassy girl had used," Ah, whatever—something 'bout control, but you know ya don't have ta."

Nick glowered. "What?"

"This." Ellis motioned to the bed, and back to himself. "If you really don't wan' me ta do this, Ah won't. Ah don't wanna make ya uncomfortable, ya know?"

Nick sighed, a pale hand shifting through his once nice, smooth hair that seemed to stick everywhere to his face and refuse to settle down. How long had it been since he showered? Since any of them showered…Hell, even found running water. Christ. Nick would _kill_ someone for a bath not filled with bile, blood and other various body parts from revenged hotels. God fucking damn he hated feeling so _disgusting._

"Ellis, I don't know if you've noticed, because you tend to have the attention span of fly and all, but I'm _never _comfortable," The brunet's brows rose a little in the expectation of being snapped at again, but Nick quickly changed his diction's directions. This was just something he'd have to put up with.

"But..ah…Don't worry about, kid. Ro's right. It's my own damn problem. Now, get your hick-ass up here and fix this before Coach comes back in here and tries to kill me."

"All right man," Ellis grinned, shifting onto the mattress so that he could sit Indian style with both of his legs resting on the bed; rubbing his hands together like he was a practiced masseur. Nick eyed the motion wearily, already wanted to keep his back to the wall.

"Now, ya gotta turn around and take off yer shirt, or this ain't gonna work."

Nick studied Ellis's genuine smile coolly, his green eyes burning with disdain for the whole situation. "Sorry Sport. Coach might've got my jacket, but that's as far as I go. I am _not _taking off my shirt."

Ellis didn't seem moved at all by the acid in the con-man's voice. "Ah won't be able ta see what Ah'm doin' is all. What if Ah make it worse?"

Nick rolled his eyes at the kid, the only action he seemed capable of doing without wanted to punch a wall in vain to escape the pain that rattled through his bones. "It's dark enough in here to give five star ratings to most low budget porno films in the market—what is taking off my shirt going to matter when it comes to seeing anything? And how can you screw up a massage, Ellis?"

The brunet's grin turned sheepish at the corners of his mouth, his eyes ducking down, and a chuckle building in his chest. "Well, ya see, it's a pretty funny story, 'cause, this one time Ah was testing my—"

Nick groaned, his patience growing much too thin for another long Ellis story. "Ellis—you know what?" he interrupted the brunet viciously. "I'm suddenly found that—" Nick paused for a second, fixing his words before he said something he'd regret and taking to keep Coach's words in mind, while all Nick wanted to do was scream profanities at everyone alive and dead around him.

"I'm…" he gritted out slowly, forcing the weak word out of his system…"In too much pain to really listen right now…so if we could just—ugh, get this over with, that'd be great."

"Sure thing," Ellis nodded, carefully raising his hands to grip at the back of Nick's shirt. Nick could only barely swallow his pride and dignity, scrunching his eyes closed and breathing in deeply, unsure of what would come next. Surprisingly, Ellis simply held the shirt up and let Nick take his own time in awkwardly slipping out of it, trembling with the buttons and the angle that he had to tilt his head to see them. After they were open, Ellis helped Nick out of his light blue undershirt, tossing it to the ground recklessly against the futile complaint of Nick to "be gentle with them, Christ, they cost 3,000 bucks _each!"_

Thankfully the sun was just beginning to break into the 5 am time slot in the east coast of America, so finally Atlanta was being lit up with its golden rays that somehow managed to reach through the windows and give the room some much needed light. Nick groaned pitifully as he laid back down across the bed, his arms folded underneath him so that he could bite into his fists if he needed to. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd drawn blood from his own body due to the pain. Ellis crackled his knuckles, and had just started lining up his hands along Nick's back when the sight of it suddenly stopped him.

_Scars._

Some of them long, wide and white and some of them as invisible as a nat's leg covered the length of the gambler's back. Ellis withheld his gasp, swallowing hard to keep his fingers in control, a million questions popping into the 23 year old's mind. One particularly deep looking scar ran from under the waist of Nick's white pants to just about the square of his left shoulder. _What was that one made with—a whip? A _knife?_ Or that one? How many years did to take to heal? How much blood came from that one? _Ellis fixed his stare to the window, and shifted uncomfortably from his position along the side of the black-haired criminal.

"There a problem, Overalls?" Nick gasped, one hand gripping tightly into the mattress. It hurt like a bitch to stretch out his back muscles completely out, and he was doing his best to control his shaking, resisting the urge to pull himself into a tight ball and maybe practice knocking himself out by smashing his head into his own kneecaps.

"No, naw, man, just…thinkin', Ah guess." Ellis slowly spoke; forcing his hands down and on the man's torn up skin. "Now, this might start hurtin' worse at first, but Ah promise, it's for the best."

Nick already had his face into a hidden cringe as he braced himself. "Whatever's best for the rest of you guys. We have to move soon—Rochelle's orders."

Ellis pressed the heel of his hand into Nick's damaged skin and ran it up the length of Nick's spine, watching the involuntary shudder of the felon's right leg twist. "Y'heard that?"

"You guys aren't exactly _quiet_, ya know," Nick tried to retort in his usual condescending tone, but it was shattered with the amount breathlessness to his vocal chords just so he wouldn't whimper out his words. Ellis's mouth rearranged itself into a slight frown of concentration. Carefully, he titled his head as he studied the cardshark's back, wondering where was the best place to start, if any. He simply shrugged and decided to just start from the shoulders and head down.

The 23 year old's fingers felt rough, probably from years of working tinkeringly with car parts and axles, and increasingly warm across Nick's back, forcing the con-man not to shutter from the sudden contact across his cold, clammy skin. He told himself not to make a single damn sound if he could help it. The other thing Nick noticed pretty quickly was that Ellis wasn't one against personal space—the kid practically leaned down, his face hovering over Nick's spine. Nick kept his teeth clenched in his jaw, trying to think of anything else but the claustrophobic feeling of someone towering over him like that. In situations where Nick didn't have the upper leverage, people standing taller than him meant things were going downhill, and downhill fast.

Ellis's hands started slightly at the center of Nick's back, shifting forward and back in measured patterns actually seemed to be helping—at first. Nick quickly stopped that. He shifted himself tighter, and everything instantly became taught and unmallable against Ellis's palm. The kid only took that as a challenge though—his tongue sticking out childishly from the side of his mouth as he scanned his trained eyes for another method. He nearly thought of the human body like a car itself—just some wires loosened, maybe some spliced and some crisscrossed, but nuthin' was unrepairable within Ellis's confident expertise.

Regardless of the muscles, Nick couldn't deny that it _might've _felt nice for the warmth that was the being moved through his skin. Ellis rested a palm across Nick's right shoulder, and slowly pulled down, strong fingers managing to scratch the surface of Nick's first defense—cold. Ellis's hands only left warm traces of heat that spurred longevity up and down his muscles, which were beginning to break down into nestled aches, desperate for more. Nick tried to fight back, realizing that soon he'd be feeling nothing but warmth and not the general ache of his back. He thought about the wind that was drafting through the room and how it single handily turned the sheets and mattress to ice in 1.3 seconds—but soon his thoughts were looping around, back to how nice warmth actually felt…

Suddenly a left hand was slid smoothly down, then directly up from the center of Nick's back to his neck, causing an involuntary ducking of Nick's head—a slow, steady surge of relief actually briefly touched upon the nerves, resting there before fading away like a dying ember from a cigarette.

Ellis took the movement expectantly, a light chuckle escaping his lips that nipped at the skin across Nick's back from how close Ellis was to him. "You _really _don't wann' enjoy this, do ya? Com'on, Nick. Jus' try ta relax. Y'know. Like when ya' play cardsn'stuff."

Nick stirred restlessly, fingers folded into the sheets in an attempt to recoil from what he had just felt, a small huff of bitter laughter sparking his reply. "You obviously don't know what a real card game is like, Sport."

"Shoot," Ellis drawled in a mutter, sliding his right hand up and down Nick's back again, re-feeling all the re-hardened muscles, tight as a drum. "Ya could'a least try."

"Try to relax," Nick scoffed; his hidden green eyes wide and shamelessly alert, "Right."

After a few moments of silence, interrupted only by Nick's occasional slight intakes and outtakes of passing pain that liberated his labored breathing, Ellis's smirk returned. "May-be'd help if ya tried ta close yer eyes or sumthin', man." The kid suggested curiously. "Ah dunno."

_Close__ my eyes? I'm going to fuckin' kill you Ellis, _Nick growled in his skull, his shoulders growing all the more tense. The Southerner abruptly froze, his crystal eyes wide as he watched practically every muscle shift simultaneously across Nick's back.

_Fine, _Ellis challenged, his eyes narrowing playfully. If Nick wanted to make this a fight, then he'd get one!

Without warning Ellis picked up the pace to his kneading, pushing against the muscles across Nick's shoulders like a bombardment. He grew careless over his direction now that he was warmed up. He quickly pushed his thumbs, circling them up and digging harder into the blade of a shoulder, forcing pressure into them little too hard. Reflectively, Nick set his teeth into his curled knuckles refusing to make a single sound of pain, but Ellis continued to charge through, sure, strong fingers dancing just over-top of that one, long, deep scar that he had been so freaked over before. Ellis had just barely touched the end of the scar when Nick's defense broke; a bloodcurdling cry of agony that sounded from Nick's throat made the hair on Ellis's neck stand on end, and the mechanic nearly fell off of the bed in surprise.

"_Shit, shit, shit man, Ah'm sorry!" _Ellis squeaked, leaning back on his hands to pull away from the struggling gambler as quickly as possible. "Ah didn't mean—Ah didn't think!"

"It's—it's okay, Ellis," Nick panted, his forehead pressed into the mattress in shock, thankful that he'd managed to just vocalize his cry, and not have the physical audacity to leap after the kid in rage—like he might've possibly done to one or two doctors that had been so tactless before. It was for this reaction that he hadn't been touched on that wound for a long, long time. He couldn't lie now and say that wasn't ready for it at all, deep, purple, stinging teeth indents in his fingers aside. But he certainly didn't want to admit defeat to it now.

"_Aurgh," _Nick reached a hand over his shoulder to cover at the end of the scar just as it met his shoulder blade, his whole body seeming to tingle with panic. "Jus'," Nick gritted out, "gimmie a minute, okay? Don't…make any sudden moves."

As much as Ellis seemed to be full of limitless energy, that boy knew how to stand still. Nick accounted it to Ellis probably still playing freeze tag and other dumb kiddie games with his friends in some summer-time baseball field at the age of 23—but he distressed. The initial shock was over. Nick rolled his shoulder with a loud hiss.

"Ah…Ah didn't want ta ask because it just didn't seem polite but…how did…all of that happen to you, Nick?" Ellis voice came out barely more than a drawling whisper.

Nick sighed, settling down anyway, the nerves in his neck and left shoulder surging with prickles and jabs of nonexistent blows from shadow men.

"It…it…was a long time ago, Ellis." Nick stared hard into the green, mute flowers that patterned the mattress, his voice monotone and low. "I fucked up. End of story."

He wanted to turn and look the boy in the eyes—that's how real men talk to one another— but his shoulder was twitching so fast and there was that annoying thud of his heart in his eardrums that it made even that movement pretty hard. His voice was littered with breathless pain, but he tried his best to not scare Ellis. The kid didn't know any better, after all. Nick decided against moving, suddenly worried about what look would be in Ellis's eyes. Sympathy? Pain? Pity? Nick tried not to flash into anger—who knows what Ellis thought. But the last thing the gambler wanted was _pity._ Not from some kid, or Rochelle or Coach. Not from _anyone._

"…Besides, if I told you, I'd have to kill you, and considering that Georgia is pretty much _made _out of guns, I don't think you wanna take that bet that I wouldn't." Nick added thoughtfully in a careful, condensing attempt to lighten the mood, trying to push away a sudden feeling of guilt that was causing a whole new type of pain to eat at Nick's insides.

This seemed to help as Ellis scooted along the bed a little more; his bright blue eyes growing round and ever larger in the sunlight. "Ya' mean like yer some kind'a secret agent or sumthin'? 'Cause man, only secret agents n'movies say th' kinda shit! Me and Keith, we watched all them James Bond movies at his place one night, an' man, oh _man_, you ain't British or nuthin', but that's _SO bad ass!"_

Nick stared in disbelief, forcing himself to get a glimpse at the excitable mechanic for a moment, his brows furrowing and unfurrowing themselves as they tried to process the seriousness of Ellis's response.

"Yeah, Ellis, I'm a God damn secret agent. Now don't go telling people, okay?" The sarcasm in Nick's voice was potent.

"Noo shee-it, man?" Ellis's voice rose to a higher pitch of excitability.

Nick slowly shook his head at the boy, over-whelmed by Ellis' infectious smile that, despite everything that had happened, he couldn't help but twitch a smile back.

"You confuse me, Ellis."

The brunet grinned, thumbing at his nose. "S'okay, Ah won't say nuthin'."

"Great killer, you just…keep doing what you're doing, I guess."

For once, Ellis didn't respond. He simply slow down his hands, fingers working ruefully between Nick's shoulder blades, and then, eying Nick's body language carefully, slowly worked down, getting at close as he could to the man's lower back muscles without making a scene outta things. His heart was still jumpy in his chest, but the hick kept a level head, and forced his hands not to shake when they had to pass over a thin scar, or a large cut. He tried not to imagine what had brought Nick to that kinda place in his life. Shoot—the only bumps Ellis ever got were from a good time—sometimes _too_ good o'va time, if Keith was involved. But nuthin' like that. Never like _this._

Behind Ellis' good natured exterior, a wave of sympathy washed over him, spilling down his own shoulders and into his fingertips. He hid it by massaging with one hand, but the mechanic couldn't help but trace all over Nick's back, following the different scars—wishin' he was like that Sherloc' Holmes guy that Keith had ranted about reading so much back in senior year— apparently the character was some kind of detective, and could read a person's life story from just their _hair_ or the dirt beneath their _fingers._

Ellis lowered his eyes sadly at his worked over Nick's back more directly, skirting around particularly twisted scar tissue, slowing down his tempo so that each muscle was carefully brought out and stretched. Nick occasionally gave a grunt or adjusted his body, hiding when a shot of pain washed over him too quickly to derail. Ellis tried his best to ignore the fact that he was causing his friend pain. To distract himself with some closure, he thought about how he wished he could get close enough to Nick one day so that the con-man would maybe tell him himself 'bout all them scars. Ellis wasn't too sure he'd like to be faced with learning Nick's stories all at once like that, just by looking at him. He wanted to hear it from Nick himself. But Ellis also figured that everyone had a right to their privacy. And maybe some things were better left unsaid.

But then again, Ellis wasn't too keen on leaving much of anything unsaid.

Nick grunted as Ellis pulled at a taunt muscle, easing it down the con-man's body as best he could. He sometimes had to work his fingers, knuckles sinking carefully into each blade of Nick's shoulder for minutes on end. But it was working. Slowly, Ellis noticed less and less the notable pain filled gasps that Nick tried his best to hide between his teeth. He could sprawl his entire hand, palm flat over the soft, slightly worn surface, and press in, causing Nick's back to give a loud popping sound that sounded like something was sliding back into place, and made Ellis feel a little sick to his stomach. Whatever it was, that really seemed to do the trick. Nick's legs froze in place, and his fingers uncurled from its rigorous grip on the mattress. Minutes soon turned into ten, twenty, and soon forty minutes of Ellis's startling awkward procedure. He slowly spread both hands up Nick's spine and transferred them to his sides—noticing that, in the shadows within the corners of the gambler's arms, Nick's eyes were finally closed. But his brows were furrowed tightly. Ells simply sniffed off-handedly and slowed down his pace once more, being all the more gentle. Maybe he was hurting the poor fella?...

**~ *Nick *~**

Nick fought against everything he had ever known about people touching him.

1. He absolutely _despised _it. Unwanted contact brought pain, awkward situations, and possibly worst of all: _germs._ (Did people in New York—no, scratch that,_anywhere_—actually give a flying fuck about the "WASH YOUR HANDS SIGN"s or _pay attention _to those lame ass PSA commercials? People die from that kind've stupid shit! Literally! Fuckin' infected everywhere!)

2. The last person to ever give him a back massage was his ex-wife. And that sentence alone should speak for itself in how it worked out for Nick.

Besides her though, when _was_ the last time he'd tried to give up a piece of himself to someone else? All he could fathom was his ex-wife. Yech. Maybe once or twice, but not like _this_—not even during sex. During sex _he_was in _control_. Not even a one night stand—that was all _his_ flattery, _his_ words,_ his_ actions, _his _hands—but now, laying in the warmth that some dumb-ass strange kid had created, so desperate to save his worthless life—Nick could only give a defeated sigh. He leaned against the bed, finally giving up on contorting his own shoulders. The responding effect was relentless—warmth, something actually soft to lay on, and the constant presence of something stable, familiar, and the kid's calm, even breathing…it actually was kind of relaxing, to say the least. Ellis's hands slid up his sides, moving towards the center, before gently easing up the core of Nick's back, causing a long stretch of release to curl up Nick's spine like a million minute radiating nerves had found instant pleasure; and before Nick had a chance to shut his stupid mouth, he let out a soft, nearly whispering moan. Despite his drowsiness, Nick's eyes flickered back open.

_Okay. That had to __never __happen again._

"El," Nick's voice came out wrong and raspy, and Ellis's slowly lifted his eyes to meet the tired, strained green of the con-man. "You're going to have to stop, alright Sport? You're putting me to sleep."

Ellis seemed to store this information away, as his eyes stared unseeingly at a certain spot just below Nick's own line of sight, the way that Nick always noticed him stare whenever he was lost in some deep train of thought. Ellis did his best to hide his one-sided smirk of secret celebration. The kid gave a polite shrug, and, without waiting for Nick's consent, went right back to re-kending his back. A pull there, and another round of warmth and relief flooded through Nick's body—he held back a shallow groan in response, his voice suddenly gone as he fought against his weary body to bring the words back to tell Ellis to stop.

"Ain't no big deal, Nick. Ah don't mind,"

The kid's voice was nonchalant, as if he did this all the time. Inside, Ellis couldn't help himself—maybe, just maybe he could help Nick in some way. Bring his surrogate, desperate lil' family back to common ends. He slowly rubbed both hands straight up Nick's spine, bringing them about catch at the front of the man's shoulders, digging in each finger gingerly, carefully, and moving in circles with phases of strong and softer presses.

Nick tried his best to re-correct Ellis's statement. But every time he tried to bring the will to move his legs, or attempt to rise, Ellis's hand was there, discreetly fixated on a particular muscle that couldn't reach Nick's brain for a command. He managed once to shift his waist, to rise for less than a second and then collapsed back into the instantaneous, wonderful warmth that his body and Ellis's hands had provided. Nick knew he was slipping—now he didn't even want to hold his head up. Soon his eyes followed suit. He stretched against the mattress and sighed deeply. He couldn't go down without saying something at least. He fought to keep his tongue in control as he spoke.

"—" Nick began, but all that came out was yawn. Instantly self-conscious, Nick snapped his mouth closed, and tried to hide the pale, nervous blush that faintly settled over the bridge of his nose. He was better about it than Ellis that was for sure, on controlling his reaction to embarrassment. One being that he was pretty smooth about things, and two: He rarely let himself into a situation to care what another person thought, whereas Ellis seemed to care about _everything._

Of course, what he meant to say was something witty—possibly not sarcastic though, as he found that was often a foreign language barrier to the kid. A short, curt phrase like "Ellis, the hanky panky's over now," or "You rowdy kids today will never understand the meaning of 'stop'." But all that came out as a _compliment _that had sneaked its way through Nick's twilighting vocabulary that was blurring the line between what he had fun saying, and what he actually felt. By the time Nick found use of his vocal cords again, nearly five whole minutes had passed of Nick being lost between bouts of dozing and chiding himself desperately awake, Ellis's easy breathing making him feel like lightheaded with comfort, dissipating the need to pull away…to hide…

"Ya' know kid, you're not half bad a'this…" Nick's voice was muffled thickly with the drag of sleep, and almost incoherent to Ellis's ears, but the kid simply puckered a large smile, lest Nick catch him.

"Naw, man," Ellis responded simply, tracing carefully over the long, damaging scar from Nick's left shoulder to his waist. "Jus' what friends do."

_Ah, El. Always humble_, Nick thought sleepily, not bothering to voice the compliment. He'd have to tell him some other time. The con-man simply tossed his head away, hating to be looked at while he slept, and waited for his thought process to finally come to a still. He kept aware as he could into trying to match Ellis's breathing pace—but soon the effect became soothing, and Nick half-consciously nuzzled against his own arms, barely aware of anything but Ellis's hands. The last thing he felt before sleep finally won its hard-fought battle was a hand moving over his scarred shoulder, and tracing down…like the kid was making a last ditch effect to erase it.

Funnily, the scar, for once in his life, didn't cost Nick an ounce of pain. Nick gave into sleep with a small, barely noticeable smile. And the last time he'd fallen asleep smiling, he couldn't even say. Nick didn't even believe shit like that actually happened. But then again, he couldn't really believe that people like_ Ellis _actually existed either.

Ellis continued on with the massage long after his own fingers began to ache. Though, it took the hick a while to realize just how out of it Nick was. When he finally stood, he went to give the gambler a shake—to continue on in the first place like Ro's plan. But standing there, in the light, looking down at all the white, eerily glowing scars on Nick's exhausted frame, Ellis found he just couldn't do it; so he simply picked up his shoes and hat. Placing the cap over his short, brunet hair, he tipped it respectfully towards the sleeping figure, and then padded out of the room like he was never there to begin with—a small, shared smile all his own springing to his lips.

**~*~ Much later, that night…~*~**

Nick openly his eyes blearily, zapped awake by the sudden cold that lay across his body. He incautiously was on his feet—only to freeze, hit with the memories of earlier, ready to pay the price of freedom—but nothing happened. He blinked, confused, a hand testing his back.

Then it hit him.

_Well I'll be damned_, Nick smirked, shrugging into his shirt and jacket, _the kid actually did it._

Nick ran a ringed hand through his messy black hair, scratching at his jaw preemptively. _But how to pass it off now? _He sighed through his nose, and shrugged through the doorway, fixed on the idea that no one would be awake at this hour. Sadly, he was greeted through the wondering shadows and smallness of the living room by the wide-eyed, grinning brunet, seating in a falling apart- chair.

_Shit. Of COURSE Rochelle and Coach would make him night-watch. Or __me__ watch._

"So," Ellis's usually talkative voice brought on a subtle, meek tone as he was the only one awake to notice Nick slink from the back room and sit down on the lumpy, beaten sofa. "How do'ya feel?"

Nick's shoulders sagged a little, blowing a buff of air back at his own face to flick the useless, black strands away. "Honestly?"

Ellis raised a tempting eyebrow, his smile slowly growing wider and wider with anticipation. Here was mister Smarty-Pants Nick, about to tell him, Ellis, that he did a job well done!

Nick's raised up both arms, stretching his back sorely. He didn't want to ever admit it, but he'd take soreness over the ridiculous amount of pain he was before. But he still didn't want to admit it. So he fixed his scowl and muttered sourly: "Like you spent most of this morning beating the shit out of my back."

Before Nick even had time to blink, Ellis had thrown himself across the room and landed softly on the couch next to the scowling gambler with enough reckless energy that seemed to come from piss nowhere. (If you ask Nick.)

Nick looked startled at the young man next to him, Ellis's sky blue eyes practically glowing with delight. "Nick, that's great!" The Southerner half stage whispered, half yelled despite the two coiled up sleeping bags in the corner that contained a passed out Coach and Rochelle.

"Um, 'great'?" Nick repeated in a dumbstruck whisper.

"Yeah—that's how yer supposed ta feel! Tha' more beat up, th' better!"

Nick blinked slowly. "That's so _not _the motto where I come from."

"It's priority here, man." Ellis smirked, staring at Nick from the corner of his eye, completely proud of himself.

"What?" Nick asked innocently, his eyes disregarding the pride of the mechanic out of secret self-amusement and unspoken embarrassment. Nick ignored the sudden heated flush that was resting at the bridge of his nose again, so he quickly raised a hand to scratch at it for cover.

"Augh, think of it this way: yer sore now, but tuh pain's gone, ain't it?" Ellis prompted zealously, not willing to give up the prize of approval.

Nick scratched the back of his neck, self-consciously aware that this simple action was something he couldn't bear to live through just a few short hours before.

"…Sure, Sport. Why not."

That was good enough for Ellis to celebrate, his grin showing all of his teeth in the scatted moonlight.

"Man, this is so _great_—now we can git our butts to New Orleans an' kick som'more zombie hide!" Ellis worked himself up again, and lounged at Nick before the con-man had time to lift his arms up in defense. A tanned, lean arm was thrown around Nick's neck, trapping him into a one-armed hug against the friendly mechanic. "See Nick, lettin' people care 'bout you, it ain't so bad."

Nick's eyes flickered around wearily towards the sleeping bags to see if they were being watched, but thankfully neither teammate stirred. Unsure about hugs like this, not really used to inmate contact with relationships beyond a one night stand for the past couple of years or so, Nick kindly just let Ellis do most of the hugging, until finally Nick was feeling claustrophobic again, and he lifted a hand to pat Ellis's back to signal that hug-time was over, probably forever.

"Well, it's not bad, no. Just annoying." The restless con-man added in a sarcastic whisper.

Ellis's ever staying smile seemed to dash down a little, his eyes crestfallen. Nick quickly re-evaluated his meaning, cursing himself inside for always screwing shit like this up: "But, Christ, what I'm really trying to say, Over—_Ellis_, is…thanks, I guess," Nick added, his eyes shifting away coolly, unable to handle the happy look in Ellis's saccharine face.

Ellis's full mouthed smile returned full force; reaching the kid's eyes and making them crinkle slightly. Now Nick just had to look at him.

Something in the dark, usually cold part of Nick's chest seemed to feel a little bit lighter when he watched that dumb kid smile; he had to admit to himself. To shield this, Nick folded his arms across his chest defensively, as if those bright blue eyes could see through his skin and find that, somehow, some God damn way, that obnoxious lil' punk had managed to squeeze into Nick's long-stolen heart. That he actually _cared_ for the brunet. A lot. And even for Lil' Miss Sass and Coach too, somewhere _deep _down.

Strangely, Ellis still hadn't responded. He just continued to stare at Nick, his round, orb-like eyes seeming to fill with the growing star-light outside, and yeah, Nick had to admit it, the kid's eyeballs actually started to _shine._

Nick shifted uncomfortably in his spot, the muscles pulsing quietly with dragging lulls of soreness, as the two males continued to stare at one another. Nick felt his impending doom.

"You're going to hug me again…aren't you?"

Like he had been waiting for this from the very beginning, Ellis threw back his head and laughed that stupid, charming lil' southern guffaw of genuine happiness. He opened up his arms and hugged Nick again, despite the con-man's moans and groans of "God, you're so touchy!" but Ellis didn't mind.

Ellis wasn't one to worry about much for the future. And even with all the Earth gone straight down to hell, he was happy to be here with these guys. Everyone needed a friend. Ellis tightened his grip, pulling Nick nearly over and into his lap, nuzzling into his neck playfully, because he knew how much Nick hated inmate stuff like that.

"Anytime Nick," the gentle, wild, optimistic brunet laughed, "Anytime."

* * *

**EAN: **I'm so terrible at hurt and comfort and relationships and stuff. Rochelle, I'm so sad a lot of your lines were snipped, because gurl, you're HILARIOUS. Oh Nick, I relate to your antisocial tendencies so badly that it's a little sad. It actually made this story pretty hard to write. But oh, why do I love it so? Also: Why does James Bond always SOMEHOW appear in every longish story that I have? I've never even SEEN a James Bond movie! THE IRONY. So, maybe let old Kay know what ya'all think of her horrible hurt/comfort fic? C: OTHER than the fact that it's horrible!

Because it's pretty horrible.

Okay, you can tell me it's just horrible. _Hayyyy…_


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